


Different Strokes

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Crack, Episode: s03e12 The Sound of Drums, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Introspection, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-26
Updated: 2010-11-25
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:44:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7198421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title:                     Different Strokes</p><p>Author:                    Edzel2</p><p>Genre:                     Dr Who, during TSOD/LOTTL</p><p>Rating:                  NC17, slash, Ten/Master</p><p>The Master is enthralled with his ‘new’ Doctor – but after a while the novelty wears off. He needs something to spice things up a little. But he gets more than he’d bargained for...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

The Master is bored. Having total domination over a planet is fantastic, really it is; but after a while the subservience of everyone around him begins to grate, until he longs for a little rebellion. Just a minor one, nothing too threatening; just enough insurrection to get the blood rushing around his veins again, so that he can feel the thrill of pitting his considerable wits against others. 

He considers altering the Archangel’s subliminal programming to allow the more feisty examples of mankind a little more freedom. Oh, he knows there is a resistance network, of course he does. In fact there is more than one because most continents have them; but without resources or power they’re pretty harmless. He’s made it a point to blow one wide open each week, just as a warning to the rest of them not to get too cocky. Perhaps that had been a mistake... because although the Doctor had (at first) kept banging on about how great the Human Race is, how they’re indomitable and would find a way to outwit him given time, so far he hasn’t seen much evidence of this indomitableness. 

Even the thrill of having the Doctor as a helpless prisoner has begun to pale, if he’s honest. To see that doe-eyed pretty-boy panting and distraught at his feet, the freak and the girly looking on in despair as he’d scuppered their frankly pathetic plan (if you could even call it a plan – ‘really, Doctor, you’re slipping in your old age’ he’d told him) had been utterly thrilling, arousing even (because yes, he remembers with a sigh, he’d been half-hard just seeing the Doctor’s horrified expression as he’d realised his failure and what it would mean for his beloved humankind). And he’s enjoyed many more moments like that in the twelve months since then. 

Even the knowledge that his plans are almost at fruition point doesn’t set his hearts racing the way it did in the beginning. It’s taken him a while to fathom out why (he’s never been one for examining his own feelings overmuch – partly because the drums have a nasty habit of increasing in intensity and volume whenever he does find time for reflection and partly because he is, after all, The Master of All Things – he doesn’t make mistakes (well, not many) and so has no reason to examine his motives or reasoning for anything he chooses to do.) but eventually it comes to him – in the form of a dream, oddly enough.

Now Time Lords don’t tend to dream much – mainly because they don’t need a lot of sleep, as a rule. A Time Lord’s brain is so complicated and capable of processing so much multi-dimensional data that if it were necessary to sleep in order to process all the information they assimilate on a daily basis, well – they would spend more than half of their lives asleep, which quite clearly is not at all satisfactory or productive. The High Council of Elders had always spent half their time asleep anyway, but the Master had always suspected that it was due more to a sense of overwhelming boredom than any real need. But since fetching up on twenty-first century Earth the Master has been sleeping more and more, most notably and usually after using and abusing his human consort. Even fucking Lucy has become something more of a chore than a pleasure lately – like everyone else around him, she is so frightened of incurring his wrath that she has become a pale sycophant, obeying his every command until his demands become ever more outrageous until he comes to realise that were he to tell her to slit her own throat she might well just do it with hardly a murmur; perhaps just a fearful widening of those pretty blue eyes and a gasp from the soft red mouth... and even that little fantasy has lost the power to arouse him now. 

So when he’d awoken - shaken and sweating with his hearts pounding fit to burst - from a dream in which he’d watched the Doctor fade away before his eyes, leaving him alone on a planet full of cowed human beings, a fleet of armed rockets and a taste like dry ashes in his mouth, he’d cursed himself for a damned fool. 

Because it’s obvious, isn’t it? The enmity of ages, the constant win-lose-win thrust of combat with the Doctor - that is what it’s all about, what it’s always been about. Even during their childhood (such as it was) and then their time at the academy... the love/hate relationship they’d enjoyed/endured, the betrayal (and oh, how he’d felt betrayed) and the chase, the never-ending quest to make the Doctor pay for his transgression.... and now, even now, the Doctor wants to carry that on to what to his twisted mind is the only possible outcome... he wants to forgive the Master, make it all the Master’s fault.... whereas as far as the Master is concerned, the Doctor is to blame, has always been to blame. Now even more so...

The Master groans and leans forward across his raised knees on the rumpled sheets, damp with his own sweat, and finally he can admit his error to himself. The Doctor, reduced to a wrinkled homunculus that barely has the strength to stand... even with one hundred years added so that he becomes enfeebled and unable to lift a finger to stop the Master... the Doctor is emasculated, defused, and totally unworthy of the Master’s attention. And therein lays the problem; he needs to restore the Doctor. make him vital, make him a threat, an adversary deserving of the term. 

The Master falls back onto the mattress with a sigh of relief – his hearts are still pounding, yes, but now with excitement, not fear. Well... perhaps just a smidgen of fear, because that’s the danger isn’t it, the risk? He feels himself growing hard and strokes a hand down his belly as he imagines a youthful Doctor, restored and angry, berating him and vowing to stop him in his quest for universal domination. Oh, yes... he tugs and squeezes his erection, his arousal steadily growing as he imagines the puppy-dog eyes, the open mouth... 

The comms system by his bedside beeps softly. He curses, reaching one fluid-slicked finger across to activate it. 

‘What is it?’ It had better be important or that’ll be another useless human thrown overboard...

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Master... but we have news of Martha Jones...’

The Master listens intently, a grin slowly suffusing his features. As the voice continues, telling him how a widowed scientist - whose son is fortunately in custody - had received a visit from Martha Jones and a young male accomplice. The foolish child had trusted once too often and not only do they now know the resistance’s next move, but they know where Martha Jones is headed and why. His hand drifts back to his cock and he resumes his self-pleasuring with a sigh of contentment. Yes, it’s all starting to come together nicely. 

‘Despatch a unit to the UNIT base, and another to the vicinity of the safe house,’ he instructs his minion. ‘Stay well back and await my arrival. Do nothing, do you hear me? Nothing. She won’t go much further tonight.’ 

With a grunt he pulls his hand from his cock and springs from the bed. Grabbing his gown and sliding his feet absentmindedly into the slippers placed there earlier by a resentful Francine Jones, he quickly ties the gown so that it hides his arousal. It wouldn’t do to show his hand (or his cock) too soon...

The flight deck is in semi-darkness, the little cage hanging from a hook in the centre of the ceiling. As he approaches he can just make out the small form huddled on the bottom. For one terrifying second he thinks the Doctor isn’t breathing and his own breath catches in his throat. But as he comes nearer the tiny creature stirs, sitting up and blinking huge, rheumy eyes at him in the dim light. 

‘Guess what?’

 

******


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor is not exactly thrilled by The Master's attentions...

  
Author's note: The Doctor is not exactly thrilled by The Master's attentions...  


* * *

The Doctor stirs briefly at the sound of the Master’s voice but then sinks back down as if even that small movement is simply too much effort. Peering into the cage, the Master can see that the wizened Time Lord’s breathing is laboured and feels a stab of alarm. 

‘Doctor?’ This is no good, no good at all – the Master wants to gloat, needs to gloat, and the Doctor, in this incarnation’s pathetic fashion, is not going to deny him that. 

‘What’s wrong with you?’ He circles the cage, warily. Could it be a trick? 

The Doctor lifts his head – way too big for his ridiculously stunted body; who would have thought that a Time Lord would end up looking like that at the end of his life? – and stares at the Master sorrowfully. ‘You need... to ask?’ He drops his head back to the floor of the cage and closes his eyes. He heaves a huge sigh. 

‘Oh no, no you don’t ... you will not deny me, Doctor! You die when I say, not when you choose!’ The Master wrenches open the cage door and reaches in. As his fingers close around the emaciated figure he suppresses a shudder of revulsion. A tiny, almost dried patch of damp in one half of the bare floor of the cage attests to the Doctor’s desperate state, and distantly the Master wonders what he does about other needs... he shudders again, and decides that he would rather not know. 

Dropping to his knees, he places the Doctor carefully on the floor. Perhaps it had been a mistake to age him quite so drastically... he has no idea how long the Doctor might be able to survive in this form, but judging by the laboured breathing and by the fact that he’s long since stopped trying to persuade the Master to ‘listen’ to his pleas, perhaps not for much longer. And that won’t do at all.

‘Don’t think that this means anything other than that I want to get the chance to punish you some more, Doctor...’ he warns as he adjusts the settings on the laser screwdriver. He’s long been in the habit of ensuring that he always has it on his person regardless of where he is, although he’s never needed to use it in self-defence on board the Valiant. It doesn’t hurt to be too careful, though. He hasn’t got where he is today by being careless. 

The Doctor makes no reply to this, and the Master points the laser at him, activates it. 

When the Doctor has finally finished writhing and screaming, the Master crouches down beside him. He touches one hand to the Doctor’s face, feeling the clammy skin and the trembling aftershocks of the de-aging process. He’s naked and shivering on the wooden floor, the tiny remnants of his suit lying in scraps on the floor beside him. He’s lost a lot of weight, the Master observes. 

‘That’s better, isn’t it? Not so likely to pop off and miss all the fun now!’ 

The Doctor’s nostrils flare and the Master knows that he can smell the Master’s body fluids on his fingers. The Master smiles. ‘I have news for you.’

‘I’m... not ... interested...’ the Doctor pants, his normal sad but pious tone absent. He sounds angry but resigned. 

‘Oh, but I think you will be...’ the Master strokes down the Doctor’s sweat-soaked face, loving the way he tries to flinch away. He’s too weak to avoid the Master’s caress though, and settles for simply closing his eyes and setting his jaw. Goose-bumps pepper his skin. 

‘Come, come Doctor – that’s not very friendly of you. I have some very good news for you. Don’t you want to know what it is?’ 

The Doctor struggles to control his breathing, and the Master admires the way his chest rises and falls, the way his belly heaves as he gasps, and the scent of his fear. He reaches the other hand into his robe and takes hold of his cock, still half-hard from earlier. At his touch it swells and the Master swallows. 

‘No... But I daresay you’ll - tell me anyway.’ The Doctor groans and tries to twist away as the Master’s fingers trace down his throat and across his chest to circle a nipple. It’s standing proud but the Master doesn’t kid himself that it might be from arousal; he can see that the Doctor is anything but aroused at the moment, his cock a sorry flaccid thing lying limply against his thigh. Nice size, though... the Master suddenly regrets the wasted opportunities when he could have played with the Doctor during the past year. It wasn’t that the thought hadn’t occurred to him – it had, on more than one occasion, and Lucy had hardly known what hit her when the frustration had become too much. But he’d remembered their academy days and how needy he himself had become for Theta’s touch. He’s not anxious to expose himself to that level of intimacy a second time, nor had he wanted the Doctor to know how much he still wants him, in spite of everything that has passed between them since. Now though... well it hardly matters, does it? Now that he knows the Doctor doesn’t actually want him, just Time Lords per se, he’s angry; he’s not in control of their relationship anymore. He’d rather hoped that all the ‘let me help,’ ‘there’s just the two of us now’ talk had been born of the Doctor’s need for the Master’s touch rather than a desire to stop him hurting his oh-so-precious humans, and this assumption had enabled him to react with anger and spite for what the Doctor had done to their relationship. He’d wanted him to feel the same way... Now though.... he’ll make the Doctor beg for him if it’s the last thing he ever does. He slides his right hand down the Doctor’s abdomen, loving the way he shrinks away from the touch, and rests his palm against the Doctor’s belly, right below his navel –the sign of a non-loomling and one that has always turned him on. It might even have been the whole basis of his later infatuation- and nestling along the line of dark hair bisecting his belly and leading down to his... 

‘Master... please don’t... please don’t do this!’ 

‘You used to like it, once,’ the Master reminds him, gritting his teeth as his own now fully hard cock begins to leak over his fingers. He loves to hear the Doctor beg, and this one has the voice for it...

‘That was then...’ the Doctor’s voice, hoarse from mis-use, tails off and the Master can’t suppress a grin as he feels how the Doctor’s body has betrayed him; the heated tip of the Doctor’s cock touches the heel of the Master’s hand as it swells to full hardness and bucks up against his stomach. 

‘And this is now,’ he tells him, sliding his fingers down and around the smooth spear of skin. He gives it a gentle squeeze and is rewarded with a deep groan from the Doctor. 

‘There...aren’t you glad I aged you back up again for this? I know I am... can’t think why I didn’t do it before, really. But then I’ve been a bit busy... speaking of which, I told you that I had some good news for you...’ the Master swallows and eases back on his wanking. It wouldn’t do to come too soon. He leaves go of his aching cock and straddles the Doctor’s body, lowers himself down onto the thin legs and slides up so that he’s sitting on the Doctor’s thighs, their cocks touching. He shuffles about a bit so that their testes touch, his lying atop the Doctor’s, settling within their sack of skin to lie jumbled together. The sensation is unexpectedly almost overwhelmingly erotic and he grabs his cock, squeezing roughly until the urge to come eases. 

‘What news?’ Ah, now he’s interested... probably more in hopes of distracting him, the Master thinks. 

‘Martha...I have news of Martha. By the way, for a human, she’s rather hot, isn’t she? So did you and her...’

‘No!’ The Doctor bucks violently, taking the Master by surprise so that he loses balance and falls to one side, catching the side of his head against one of the legs of the conference table. Dazed, he lies there, looking up at the smoked glass and trying to gather his thoughts. Get up. He has to get up... he pushes upward and his head explodes into a ball of pain. He hears himself whimper with pain before everything goes black. 

‘Master... Master... wake up.’ The voice is familiar, yet somehow not. His head... his head feels as if it could explode at any moment, there’s a rhythmical ringing in his ears which sounds familiar and he feels sick. He groans.

‘Thank Rassilon... here, let me help...’ Slowly he’s pulled into a semi-sitting position, propped against what he suspects is the offending table leg with which his head collided an indeterminable amount of time ago. He blinks and tries unsuccessfully to focus on the owner of the voice and hand which remains on his shoulder, steadying him lest he lose his balance again; which he feels all too possible...

‘How...’ His head swims as the sound of his own voice reverberates around it... but is it his voice? It doesn’t much sound like it...although he isn’t entirely sure what he should sound like, now he comes to think of it. 

‘Hush. Just rest for a minute. You took a nasty blow to the head there – you could be concussed. Let me...’ 

He feels cool hands on his brow, moving across to his injured temple. The bone is thinner there, as in most humanoids –a design fault if ever there was one- and even a relatively light blow to the area can cause considerable damage. He blinks again and manages to keep his eyes open for long enough to catch a glimpse of his surroundings – and of a naked man kneeling beside him. He gasps as a flashback of the same man restrained and kneeling at his feet surges across his vision and vanishes as fast as it came. 

‘Sorry, did I hurt you?’ The voice is low, still somewhat croaky, and sounds genuinely concerned. Since when has anyone been genuinely concerned for his well-being? 

‘No...’ he manages to whisper before the ringing returns and morphs into a pounding drum beat. His stomach rolls ominously and he swallows as bile rises up his throat. 

‘Are you by any chance going to ...’ the naked man moves away as the Master retches and promptly throws up over himself. It’s about then that he notices his own semi-clothed state, but he’s too busy gagging and spitting to take it all in. 

‘Yes,’ he finally responds drily, feeling marginally better as the pounding in his head eases. 

‘C’mon, better get you out of that robe, it’s disgusting.’

‘Who are you?’ The Master asks, blinking owlishly at the naked man as he divests the Master of the vomit-soaked black silk robe and flings it under the table, using one clean corner to carefully wipe around the Master’s mouth before he does so. He looks familiar but for the life of him the Master can’t recall his name. Or how the pair of them came to be as good as naked together on what would appear to be... a flight deck? He closes his eyes as a sudden weariness overcomes him. He jerks back to wakefulness as his face is slapped. 

‘No going to sleep now – I think you’re concussed, Master. You should stay awake.’

‘Master...Master of what?’ he groans, rolling his head to one side and instantly regretting it as pain explodes behind his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Master takes control.

  
Author's note: The Master takes control.  


* * *

The naked man stares at him, comprehension dawning in his eyes. 

‘Ah. You don’t remember, do you?’ His shoulders slump and he suddenly looks as weary as the Master feels. ‘Well, this is interesting.’ 

‘I don’t see how,’ the Master grumbles, suddenly cold now that his only item of clothing has been removed. He shivers.

‘That’ll be the shock setting in,’ Naked Man says thoughtfully. He shuffles back to sit beside the Master and pulls him close. The only trouble with that is that his skin would seem to be even colder than the Master’s, who flinches and pulls away. 

‘Take your hands off me! You’re frozen!’ 

‘Am I really?’ Tired Naked Man blinks in surprise, and then reaches up one icy hand to feel the Master’s forehead again. ‘Ah... fever. Not so good.’ 

‘Why is that?’ the Master asks although to be frank, he really isn’t that interested. His body aches abominably now and he just wants to lie down on the softest, warmest bed he can find, and sleep...

‘No, no, you have to stay awake!’ Tired Naked Man appears to be pleading with him now, which is all very mysterious. Something at the back of his mind tells him that this is something to be desired, but he can’t spare the energy or the concentration to pursue the thought. 

‘Don’t want to...’ suddenly the icy fingertips are back again, this time one either side of his head. He tries to pull away but the table leg is at his back and somehow his limbs have lost every ounce of strength. No longer held in place by Naked Man’s hand, he starts to tip sideways. The room tilts alarmingly and he almost gags again but manages to stop himself.

‘It’s okay Master, I’ve got you...’ Naked Man follows him down to the deck, wiry arms cushioning him against any impact. ‘Now don’t worry, you’ll be fine - I just need to do something to help you remember... Just relax.’

The Master closes his eyes and does as he’s bid, although he doesn’t really seem to have much say in the matter since his body is sliding into sleep without any conscious input from himself. As he starts to slide under he feels a strange sensation in his head... after a moment or two he realises that it’s Naked Man. What is a strange, naked man doing poking around in his thoughts? He tries to pull away but it’s like swimming through treacle and suddenly he’s afraid. No, more than afraid – he’s bloody terrified. 

‘No-no-no-no...’ he hears himself whimper but he’s completely powerless to prevent the assault. Tears of humiliation run cool down his fevered skin as the stranger enters his mind.

‘Oh, Koschei... no shields... I’m sorry, I’m really sorry to have to do this. But I’ve got no choice. I can’t lose you again...’ 

The Master’s awareness seems to shrink to a pinpoint as the sharp, bright presence invades him. As Naked Man slides deeper into his mental landscape, the Master realises in some far away portion of his mind that the man is revealing as much as he’s discovering. So much sorrow, and guilt, and yes, self-hatred too. What did he do, this invader-of-thoughts, to hate himself so much? 

He feels an unpleasant tugging sensation somewhere deep inside his head and screams as an unbearable cacophony of noise overwhelms him. Dimly, he’s aware that Naked Man is screaming alongside him, and that he’s scrabbling backwards in a panic-ridden attempt to flee the Master’s mind. As he goes, he drags memory after memory back to the surface with him and as the Doctor withdraws the Master roars his fury at the violation.

And then he’s back to himself, full awareness of who he is and who the Doctor is crashing in on him like an Arcturian Juggernaut. Shakily he pushes the Doctor away and scrambles to his feet, fumbling frantically for the silk robe and his laser screwdriver. He wipes vomit from his fingers and aims the device at the Doctor, who is sitting calmly now, arms across his knees and a sorrowful but calmly satisfied expression on his pale face. He even smiles up at the Master as he watches him level the laser. It’s a small, thin smile, but a smile nonetheless.

‘How dare you!’ The Master is incandescent with rage; no-one laughs at him, no-one. He watches, shaking with anger, as the Doctor howls and cries and beats his fists on the floor in agony as his body is aged up again. Only when the long lanky limbs have been replaced by tiny scrawny ones does the Master ease the pressure of his thumb on the laser and take a deep breath. In spite of his anger and almost overwhelming desire to simply kill the Doctor there and then, he’s managed to resist the temptation and stopped a few decades short of the previous ageing-up. Let the Doctor be a witness to the death of Martha Jones and the start of his Time Lord-Human empire. It’s the Master’s right to gloat and he’s going to indulge it, oh yes. 

Fin


End file.
